


Witchy Tendencies

by Wizard95



Series: Furry Chronicles of Two Hereditary Enemies [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Aziraphale's a werewolf - Lucian from Underworld duh, Bickering unmarried husbands, Crowley's a werewolf hunter - thank you Fright Night, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Werewolves, i made up my own werewolf-universe rules btw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2020-06-27 09:12:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19787806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wizard95/pseuds/Wizard95
Summary: It's funny, but Crowley's a bit of a lone wolf himself. He should know better than to go against a whole pack all on his own, though...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this was born from [this](https://smuggsy.tumblr.com/post/186129101524/huntercrowley-werewolfaziraphale-au-oh-i-do), and, of course, from David and Michael playing a vampire hunter and a werewolf in Fright Night and Underworld respectively. Snacks.
> 
> Anyhow, a couple of people on tumblr liked the idea and so here it is, this is not a continuation from that little snippet I wrote over there, but their relationship is very much like I depicted it.

Crowley doesn't see the point in keeping in touch with the rest of the local hunters community if none of them are going to fucking come to give him a hand when he needs one. And they preach on and about that they're oh-so-skilled and have brought down oh-so-many-packs.

  
  
Bullshit, all of that.

  
  
Probably.

Pricks, the lot of them. Hastur especially.

"You coming or not?" he'd known he was alone on this since Beelze had got back to him through a text. A fucking text. Three stupid words: 'double shift tonight'. Now, Crowley would be the first to admit they'd clashed on that first meeting, but the incident seemed quite unimportant next to the pressing matters at hand. Surely not all three of them were meant to double shift on the same night. "I'm leaving at dawn, can pick you up?"

  
  
"At dawn?" Hastur repeats, sounding quite scandalized, enough of an answer for Crowley, who makes an obscene gesture to the phone before putting it back on his ear.

  
  
"Well we do want to catch them unaware, not gonna walk in on broad daylight are we?"

_Am I?_

He closes the fridge with a kick and plops down on the freshly-cleaned sheets to enjoy his beer. 'Enjoy' being quite an overstatement.

"We're on good terms with them, the forensics team hasn't-"

Crowley nearly chokes on the cheap canned-alcohol.

  
  
"'scuse me?" he exclaims, scandalized himself.

  
  
"Listen, we don't antagonize them until anything's been proven, now if you go down there keep our names out of it or you'll have us on your tail as well"

  
  
"Did you just say you were in _good terms_ with a pack of bloody _werewolves_?" Crowley lets out a disbelieving laugh, but there is pure silence from the other hunter, and he can almost picture Hastur's stupid face making a displeasing gesture at his mocking tone.

The line goes dead not five seconds after.

It takes Crowley another five seconds to get himself together.

Did he just got threatened?  
  


  
  
Barely two hours later the Bentley's engine roars into life as Crowley leaves the motel behind, and as he makes his way through the small and quiet town and into the damp and deserted driveway he knows it's for the best that they didn't tag along. He's accustomed to doing stuff on his own, at his own pace, in his own way. Having Hastur or Ligur on his tail would've made him weary in the long run. He's never been much of a team-player. Beelzebub wouldn't have been any better either, bossing him around like the town's police chief, which she was.

No, he's all fine and packed up, blade sharpened and gun fully loaded, Queen playing loud and car venturing deeper off the beaten track.

He's comfortable.

He's done this dozens of times before. Pulling up the car before he enters their territory, checking his weapons twice for good measure - it's only a half-moon and it's rather cloudy, but an alpha could easily go full wolverine mode on him and their claws are not to be taken slightly, if the scars on his various limbs are anything to go by.

It's a small pack, he can deal with the young ones, freshly-turned and impulsive, they always are. Easy pickings. The alpha he needs to watch out for, the ones higher up in the hierarchy always put up a bit of a fight.

The thought of backing down has been floating about on his mind since he left the town behind - Hastur had mentioned a truce, and Crowley doesn't know the details of it but he can't bring himself to shove the easiness away: they could very well have warned them.

  
  
In which case, well, so much for the element of surprise.

  
  
As if on cue with his feelings of distrust, something collides with the ground right behind him, and he turns around ready to shoot a silver bullet just in between a werewolf's eyebrows.

He catches sight of two wild squirrels scattering away into a hollow fallen log, instead.

  
  
But he doesn't let his guard down, not even when lighting a fag. He's on their territory now, no rules here, no truce.

  
  
He'd seen the body, dropped off on a popular walking track near the coast, all blood and bones, just a sack of meat they'd got bored nipping at. It made Crowley's stomach turn. Patrol cars and police staff sporting tired but unsurprised expressions. Not a first.

Just exactly what was the nature of their treaty, Crowley was going to definitely ask. Beelzebub was annoyingly unbothered by the whole ordeal and she'd chased him off the police station when he'd brought the murder up.

They were covering it up and Crowley was having none of it.

  
  
If they weren't up to the job they needed only ask, he wasn't going to drag them behind him and throw them into the lair, they were clearly not suited for it. All it took was a few words and Crowley would've been on his way in a jiffy, no need to wait for someone to turn up butchered to get down here and get it over with.

  
  
So, there was something else to this 'treaty', and he was clearly missing it.

  
  
He can hear the rain, but he can't feel much of it. The bushy tall trees barely let any water fall through. Wet soil is much convenient, but he doesn't need stealth to approach without being heard. He only hopes his cologne has worn off by now, because newbies tend to have sharper senses and he couldn't find a very neutral soap to wash it off him either.

It almost makes him laugh.

_Soap_. A hunter's worst enemy.

  
  
You'd normally think _they're_ the stinky ones.

He sees them before they see him, but that's hardly an accomplishment: they're sitting round a bonfire in the middle of a clearing. Could've perfectly well worn a big giant neon sign reading 'come get us', Crowley snorts as he watches the big cloud of smoke venturing upwards in the sky.

  
  
And then he realizes: that is exactly the situation he's in.

So they _have_ been warned, and they're just waiting on him to turn up, round the fire having a low chat under the dimlight of the half-moon, an otherwise perfectly normal bunch of campers enjoying a night outdoors.

  
  
This time, when he hears movement behind, he knows it's not a squirrel.

Or a pair of them, either.

  
  
It's in fact, a bloke, and he bares his teeth at him and Crowley knows that he's got a better chance of coming out of it unharmed if he just brings this one down right now and turns back to the forest.

  
  
He really is in no mood for a chase, however, so he makes the bold choice and steps out into the clearing with the young werewolf sneering behind him and the rest of them standing up to meet him, like an old friend they'd been expecting.

  
  
He recognizes the alpha on the spot, simply because the rest line up around him like excited little dogs wiggling their tails, eager to be granted permission to _bite_.

  
  
Aren't they a bunch of adorable puppies?

  
  
"Thank you, Peter" said alpha cooes, and the bloke who's been grunting behind him walks round to join the rest.

  
  
Crowley nods at him with a grin.

  
  
"Good on you, Peter! Must be nice being praised by daddy" he makes a point of gesturing towards the alpha with his gun, their uneasy little red eyes follow every movement of it, and Crowley scores one to himself in his little mind-board.

  
  
This might be easier than he'd thought.

The alpha's expression doesn't shift, he smiles at him with unnerving kindness and places a hand softly on his chest and cocks his head.

"I'm Gabriel" his melodic velvet-like voice announces, and Crowley already thinks he's an arsehole, but he chooses not to voice that thought just yet, "we've been waiting for you, Crawly"

Now that wipes Crowley's grin off immediately.

"It's _Crowley_ "

  
  
"Sure it is. Now, you might be wondering why we let you come this far, yes?"

Crowley looks around with an air of boredom, then shakes his head, his gun too, because he just loves to see the puppies shift their weights uneasily at it. _Yes, this little grey shiny machine can kill you, children, must keep away from it, it goes bang-bang and you go dead-dead.  
_

  
  
"Not really... I appreciate the bonfire though, saves me the work" the hunter offers a smile and makes a point of looking a few of the youngsters in the eye. He notices they don't hold his gaze but nervously glance at Gabriel instead, wondering what's all this chit-chat about, and _can we kill him yet._

  
  
"See, I'm doing a friend a favour" Gabriel nods, almost pouts, "she didn't want us making a mess of you, not where somebody could find you. Too much paperwork, I believe those were her words..."

  
  
  
"Ah" Crowley nods in understanding. _Beelzebub, you're dead meat._

  
  
  
"So here we are" the alpha extends both his hands and makes a half-turn, smiling at his pack, his sharp teeth finally coming through, warm lighting from the fire making them look more menacing than Crowley knows them to be.

  
  
Again, it's the claws you want to watch out for.

  
  
  
Of course, a bite would turn him, but he very much doubts they'll dare even a lick when he's got wolfsbane running through his blood. If anything, it's a relief to know they wouldn't be able to make a meal of him even after he's long dead.

  
  
That's just him being a bit of an arsehole himself. Shooting up wolfsbane, his joker card. His big middle finger, a 'fuck-you' even from the afterlife.

  
  
"Yes. Shall we, uh..." Crowley checks up the time on his left wrist, on his invisible watch. He shakes his head, "...get on with it? Tonight, perhaps?"

  
  
This finally prompts an unfriendly look from the alpha.

  
  
"I know you lot love to monologue, but I was hoping to get an early night, so..." he shrugs. 

"Just let us do it" the bloke - Peter, mumbles from behind, eyes fixed on him. "Let us kill him..."

"Yes" another one seconds.

"We'll do it for you" a blonde adds, a bit on the young side, that one. Shame.

"We'll rip you apart, we will" a fourth one chimes in with a thick northern accent.

Crowley breathes out a heavy sigh.

  
  
"You wouldn't like me" he makes a funny face, "too bony."

  
  
_BANG.  
_

  
  
The blonde falls face down on the wet grass with a _thud_ , the rest of her siblings jump back, stunned, caught-off guard. Gabriel stares at her corpse open-mouthed, then returns his devilish eyes at him, mouth open, still.

And Crowley almost thinks they're going to turn round and chase their tails back to wherever their lair is, after a good ten seconds go by and there is no response from them, but it is Peter the one who runs for him first, and Crowley's got his blade out before he's reached him and pierces right through his stomach with it. The young boy makes a choking sound before his knees give out.

That'll keep him down for a bit, before the wolfsbane starts kicking in and burns his guts off.

Crowley turns around and breaks into a run, just to get some distance between him and Gabriel and to prompt the other three to follow. And they do, sweet predictable things.

The other girl tackles him down, her voice an animalistic screech full of rage, and she presses down one of her heavy-weight hands on his shoulder as she opens her mouth to let her fangs grow in size. He shoots the colt just in time to put the bullet through her heart and stop her from taking a bite off his jugular like a nasty vampire-werewolf hybrid, and with her down, the other two stop dead on their way to get him.

He shoves her limp body off him and gets up, blood splattered on his face, clothes completely wet and dirty, and he seizes them up and down with an icy glare as he recharges the gun one more time. Peter lets out an almost inaudible whine from where he lies on the grass, both hands pressing to the opened hole on his stomach. They don't spare him a glance.

  
  
"Run to daddy" Crowley speaks, voice hoarse, and they turn around and do exactly that. One of them at least, before he aims at the other one and shoots again, getting him right on the neck with unfaltering aim.

  
  
Gabriel meets the last kid half-way, and Crowley takes a deep breath and glances behind him, wondering if he should make a run for those trees after all. Silver bullets are useless against alphas and he's not quite comfortable fighting one in a clearing, no trees, no hiding spots, no leverage. He's got to let him come close enough to stab him through, which is also close enough for those fangs to pierce his skin - something that he preferably tries to avoid.

It takes him too much time to make up his mind: when he turns Gabriel brings him down with a punch. A claw-less punch, almost human-like if not for the sheer strength of it - hard enough that Crowley tastes iron. Almost like being hit with a rock. Just as easily as he had him down, the alpha wraps a hand on his jacket and lifts him up, light as a feather.

Someone who can only be the last standing dog knocks the colt off his hand from behind and runs a hand on his back with tortuous slowness, ripping his skin open deep from shoulder to waist, and Crowley will probably hate himself later for that scream, but he couldn't really keep it in.

There's a hiss from behind just as he feels blood soaking through his clothes.

"Wolfsbane!" the younger werewolf screams, a high-pitched voice, offended like ever.

Now, that prompts a laugh from him, and another look of sheer disgust from Gabriel, pinched with just a tinsy bit of thirst for vengeance.

"Foul little play" the alpha growls, american accent becoming thicker, baring his teeth with intent but not coming closer, and it makes Crowley's grin grow bigger. "Oh well, to the fire it is."

As Gabriel angrily drags him towards the bonfire and the other pup lingers behind, Crowley fights against the pain and tries to get ahold of the small stake he keeps in one of the inner pockets of his jacket, only to discover that it isn't there.

The fire grows in size as he gets dragged along, stumbling over his feet, closer and closer and with blurry vision and a back that's already on fire from being torn open, all he can think is he'll be fucking damned if he goes down like a bloody witch from the spanish inquisition.

Now _that's_ disgraceful.

"Think you did good, don't you?" Gabriel shoves him forward, keeping him up with just one hand, enjoying having the upper-hand a little bit too much for an alpha who's just lost most of his pack. "So you killed them, so I make more. You think I _care_?"

" _Ssthis anothr mnologue_?" Crowley stumbles over his words, struggling to breathe through the smoke and the pain and the blood - so much blood on his back, he can feel it just dripping down, the fabric sticking to his skin.

"You think you're changing anything? You don't make a fucking difference, sunshine."

"I'm just- I know you _enjjjoy_ it but- I might die of blood loss if you don't _ssspeed_ it up- _tryin'ta be of help 'ere_ "

And he falls. Well, it's not so much a fall as a shove: not forwards to the fire, but backwards. The grass on his back feel like hundreds of needles being pressed into his opened skin. There's a loud gashing sound, like someone biting on a very juicy apple, and a short screech of pain that ends too soon before all is heard is the crackling of the fire and his own moans of pain as he tries to roll on his side and keep the pressure off his back wound.

A pair of very familiar leather boots walk into his line of vision, and he doesn't need to look up to know that Aziraphale is staring down at him with a scowl and a mouth dripping blood. Crowley lets out a tired breath before the werewolf even speaks a word.

"Ugh, what are _you_ doing here?" he groans, the question sounding less resolved than he'd intended it to, waves of pain making his voice falter.

"Saving your reckless skin, is what I'm doing" comes the instant angered answer.

"Oh, I sure didn't miss that posh stupid little accent of yours" Crowley spits, with enough intent to masquerade the fact that yes, he'd very much missed his posh stupid little accent - not that he'd ever own up to it.

So he's got a thing for a two-hundred-and-thirty-two-year-old werewolf from London, so _sue him_.

Aziraphale finally squats down and Crowley can see that the blood has mostly been wiped off his face already. He bats the werewolf's offering hands away and stands up on his own, he's got no leg injuries thank you very much, he'll keep what's left of his pride.

With a swallowed hiss of pain, he straightens up - as much as he can anyway - and takes a few steps back from the abrasive warmth of the bonfire.

"Who tipped you off?" Crowley nods at him.

Hastur? Maybe.

Ligur? Unlikely.

It certainly wasn't Beelzebub.

"Your stupidity did, it emanates quite a smell-"

"Oh, fuck off" Crowley turns around and starts making a beeline for the trees, walking round Gabriel's head, no longer joined to his body.

"I am awfully curious, have you some kind of superiority complex or are you just really, _really_ thick?"

Aziraphale follows close behind as Crowley stops to pick up the colt, he notices the ginger who jumped on him earlier holding the stake on one of her immobile hands as well, and he bites down a curse. _Cheeky little bitch._

"What were you _thinking_? Just walking in on all six of them when you _knew_ it was a trap?"

"Spare me the lesson, I beg you" Crowley makes an exasperated face as he stands up - biting down another groan of pain - and puts the gun back on his belt. His vision goes blurry for a brief moment, though he pushes forward towards the trees lest he give Aziraphale another reason to scold him.

"Look at the state of your back - _for god's sake, Crowley!"_

"Would've tbe an owl" the hunter mocks him.

"What?!" Aziraphale hisses, clearly reaching his patience limit, stomping up to him.

" _Isssaid_ , I'd to be, tohav'- have an owl, to be _anowl_ -" and by this point, he's stumbling forwards - courtesy of a protruding branch - and losing consciousness - courtesy of a concussion.


	2. Chapter 2

If Crowley thought he'd kept a tinsy bit of pride by being able to stand on his own two feet after Aziraphale saved him from being burned at the stake by an obnoxious american lycanthrope, well, now that notion was as good as gone. He comes round, and it takes him longer than it normally would to realise that he's being piggy-backed.

By Aziraphale.

Through the woods.

His back still feels like it's actually caught fire despite having avoided that unfortunate fate, but the rest of his body seems to be fully functional again.

"Nggghn" he blurts out.

His brain, not so much.

"Come again?" Aziraphale's says, matter-of-factly, not stopping on his way back to the driveway despite Crowley insistently wiggling his feet.

"Put me down" he demands, but his vision is still blurry, and he can't quite keep his eyes opened without feeling an overwhelming desire to puke, so he doesn't lift his head from where it rests on the werewolf's shoulder.

This is no doubt one the most demeaning thing he's ever had to live through.

"Of course" Aziraphale's sweet voice retorts - sweet yet mocking - spiked with just enough anger for Crowley to carefully plan his next words: he definitely won't put him down if he speaks the wrong ones.

"I can walk, wolf" he stresses every word, and even brings his arms to push against Aziraphale's shoulders to try and make him unbuckle his hands from under his thighs - as he very actively tries not to think about that fact.

The werewolf ignores his weak protests and Crowley lets out a dissatisfied grunt. He stops shaking his feet and pushes harder with his arms instead, surely that'll make Aziraphale drop him.

No.

It doesn't.

It strains his back instead, makes him hiss in pain again and causes his vision to go all fuzzy.

He drops his head back on Aziraphale's shoulder heavily, resigned, inhaling the other man's natural smell, like smoke and pines. A familiar aroma that almost makes him feel at home - something that he would never dare to admit but can't quite ignore himself. It feels _safe._

Quite ironic, that.

Safe, being carried by one of the many monsters he's supposed to kill.

It's clear he must have dozed off again, because the next time he opens his eyes the tall trees and swift steps have been both replaced by a bunch of old brick-houses and the sound of boots against street asphalt, respectively, and Crowley will be damned if Tadfield's residents catch sight of him being carried along like this.

He makes himself come to his senses rather than wait for them to comeback to him.

This time he leaves Aziraphale no choice but to put him down, he pushes both hands against his shoulders hard enough that the werewolf retrieves his arms from under his legs and turns around to stare him down with exasperation clear on his face.

" _My god_ you're such a child" he shakes his head towards Crowley, who mocks his words by wiggling his head and making a funny face.

Bold of him to do so.

Aziraphale moves next to him and prevents him from swaying any further by carefully placing an arm on his lower waist where there are no open wounds.

"I swear-"

"Don't" Crowley cuts him off, closes his eyes and clenches his jaw. He really is never going to live this down. "Don't say a word, I will fucking stake you."

Aziraphale seems to clench his own jaw, then.

"Just walk" the werewolf demands, having a suspicious look around that tells Crowley he isn't eager to be seen either. "We're almost there"

Something tells him the werewolf doesn't care much for the townspeople's opinion, though.

"We're almost _where_?"

"I've rented a lovely little cottage, if you must know"

"Rented a- you've rented a cottage?" Crowley smiles despite himself. "A _cottage_. A _lovely little_ cottage" he repeats, and it is only the excruciating pain on his back what prevents him from having a genuine laugh at his long-acquainted... acquaintance.

"Grow up, will you?"

"Hang on a- why _are_ we walking? Where's my car?"

He turns his gaze from his uncoordinated steps to Aziraphale, who keeps quiet.

"Wolf, where the fuck is my Bentley?"

"It's-" and he stops himself.

Crowley's heart skips a beat.

"Yes?" He presses on, already loathing the werewolf's next words.

"It's- well it's... let's just say it's _not_ , anymore."

And Crowley lets out a very long and contained breath, then. Very contained. Contained so as not to take it out on Aziraphale, although something in the back of his mind tells him not to rule him out yet, because he knows the werewolf to be enough of a bastard to pull it off as well. A punishment, maybe.

Crowley hopes not, for Aziraphale's own good.

"I'm afraid it's nothing but burnt-out metal, now" the werewolf explains, and he takes care to wait until Crowley is braced against the threshold before he steps back to get the key from under a nearby plant pot. "It's what brought me down there, it was up in flames and it smelled like-"

And again, he cuts himself before finishing the sentence.

This time Crowley doesn't need him to go on. They both know this is a conversation best had at another ocassion - as it always is. As it keeps being. And beating around the bush they go, on and on and on, ignoring the elephant in the room like it's their favourite sport. 

It's better this way, and Crowley gets it, he gets it even tonight, when it's taking him a bit longer than usual to put two and two together. Aziraphale's senses are as sharp as a dog - as a wolf - and the Bentley smells - smelled - like him. The Bentley smelled like him and it was on fire.

Aziraphale doesn't go on. He kicks the door open and offers his hand again to Crowley, who chooses to ignore it and walk into the place unassisted in favour of looking - and most importantly, feeling - less like a damsel in distress.

"The police chief, Beelzebub, you know her" it's an affirmation rather than a question, but Aziraphale makes an agreeing sound nonetheless. "She's been covering up their murders, I'm certain. Must have them do her dirty work for her..."

The lights go on and Crowley is greeted by the very domestic sight of a quilt over a sofa, a spot-clean chimney, walls a warm beige colour and dark-brown wood furniture.

It is, indeed, all very cottage-y, and as Crowley turns to watch Aziraphale busy himself with tightly shutting each and every curtain off, he finds the contrast of the werewolf's dark monochromatic clothes with the soft pastel colours surrounding them almost exhilarating.

It is only in this moment that it ocurrs to him it wouldn't have been all that safe to comeback to the motel after all, what with the town police chief probably wanting him off the picture. If she'd ordered him dead, it wouldn't do to stroll back into town with her pets' blood spluttered all over his collar.

Not that she'd be able to tell the difference: blood is blood, and his back is as much a crimson colour as his front by now.

He stands on the living room and makes a face at the state of, well, himself. His jeans are torn at the ankles, there's dirt under his nails and dry blood stuck to every exposed bit of skin and his hair is pointy and damp: he is _filthy_.

Still, the lacerations on his back are probably the main concern. 

Aziraphale appears next to him and gestures to the sofa.

"All right, face down" he says, casually like someone who's announcing the time.

Crowley raises both his eyebrows in mocking disbelief.

"Ha, wouldn't you love to" he snorts, and walks to one of the chairs instead. He turns it around and sits on it facing the wall, he hears Aziraphale stomp his way into what is probably the kitchen - if the sound of rattling pots and opening of cabinets is anything to go by.

Crowley sets himself the task of undressing and he quite succeeds in taking his wet and torn-out jacket off and dropping it on the wooden floor. Now, the shirt puts up a bit of a fight: when he tugs at it he realises it's stuck to his cuts and skin and he ends up ripping it away at once and cursing every word that comes into his mind at the same time.

He hears rather than see Aziraphale drag another chair behind him and place a pot with water down on the table emphatically. The wood rattles. He half-turns to see the werewolf dipping a tartan-patterned piece of cloth into the liquid and dripping the excess just a second later.

The sight of his bare back has certainly emphazised Aziraphale's ill-humour, and Crowley knows this because the werewolf hasn't muttered a sound. He could be spitting all kinds of outdated swearwords and sophisticated curses at him right now, and yet he isn't. So the hunter can only guess his back to be as much of a gory scene as it feels.

Crowley's heart loudly bumps against his ribcage, and he takes a deep breath in anticipation.

Aziraphale places his free hand on the hunter's uninjured shoulder to keep him in place - the motion doesn't quite serve its purpose: the moment the wet cloth touches his skin Crowley jerks away with a hiss.

"Fuck! Wha-?! What is that?! Fucking salted water?!"

"It's got alcohol in it" Aziraphale explains, his voice contained, his hand returning to press down on Crowley's shoulder to try and keep him from fully standing up. "How else do you expect me to desinfect them?"

"Fucking don't, it burns" Crowley protests, mind still rather fuzzy to pick on the childish undertone of his own words. 

"Yes, well. Perhaps you'll think twice next time you feel like playing hero and walking to a whole pack with no back-up" the werewolf growls, almost menacing, and when his hand presses tightly on his shoulder again Crowley takes a deep breath in and plops back down.

He waits until the cloth is off his skin to spit out a strangled answer.

"I don't do _back up_ "

"Oh, I know. I'm long-acquainted with your suicidal tendencies, you can be brilliantly stupid when you put your mind to it. It's remarkable."

"Is it?" Crowley pants out. "Thank you."

Another wipe over his cuts, another hiss, another involuntary jerk of his waist.

"It wasn't a compliment" Aziraphale growls again. "Wolfsbane in your blood? Now that's utterly unnecessary. I thought I'd told you to stop doing that"

"And I thought I'd told you to stop behaving like my mother"

"Perhaps I will, once you're mature enough"

Crowley all but loses any will to speak after two more rounds of that hellish water penetrating his opened scratches. He focuses on the sound of the water when Aziraphale dips the cloth in and out, he pants and bites his lower lip hard enough to draw blood there too. His hands grip tightly at the chair, knuckles white. His heart doesn't stop hammering - quickly and loud enough that he knows Aziraphale can hear it as clear as if he were holding it out of his chest.

Again, the werewolf falls silent and doesn't comment on it - as if they were somehow in tune, as if he were somehow joining in on the suffering.

The hilarity of the thought almost makes Crowley snort out a laugh - he keeps it in, though, lest Aziraphale think he's losing his mind.

Every time the werewolf retrieves his hand Crowley hopes he doesn't bring it back. But he does, every time, and though the hunter can feel the gentleness with which Aziraphale's hand moves - a softness which is quite opposite to his rough words of disapproval - the gesture falls short in contrast with the excruciating pain it causes. 

He finds himself firmly shutting his eyes - bloodshot with unshed tears - and letting out a tense guttural sound, unable to keep it in anymore, quite losing control of his vocal chords.

He might even be feeling a little bit light-headed once more - the desire to out this particular thought is utterly non-existent.

"I'm almost done" Aziraphale speaks for what seems to be the first time in an hour - ten minutes at most. His voice is almost a whisper and Crowley may or may not have felt an encouraging rub at his nape. He runs a hand through his face and manages a raspy humming noise in response.

He lets his head fall on his hands and tries to think of Tadfield's residents, these gentle folk who have lived through three brutal murders in the last two months alone. There won't be a fourth one, there won't be, and so this is all worth it even if it burns like hell. No more bodies turning up butchered and no more curfew and no more a terrorized town. 

He's seen to that.

There's a couple of gentle taps on his left shoulder by means of announcement and Crowley snaps his head up.

"I'll get some bandages" Aziraphale says, and disappears from the living room. 

Crowley swallows through a very dry throat, blinks repeatedly to make the fog go away, and stands up from the chair with a grunt.

He keeps a hand on the table until he's fairly certain his legs won't give out, and he scrunches his nose at the dirty red water and the floating tartan hanky.

He is highly disappointed at Aziraphale's fridge contents: not a drop of alcohol to be seen. Water from the tap will have to do.

After the third glass he wonders if he's somehow dehydrated - running a fever perhaps?

Aziraphale joins him on the kitchen, bandage roll on one hand and a tablet of aspirines on the other - which Crowley snatches the moment they're close enough to snatch.

"Easy on the pills" Aziraphale warns him, like he's going to down the whole twelve. Crowley rolls his eyes and takes two under the supervising watch of the werewolf. "Right," Aziraphale takes a resolute step towards him, and Crowley watches him blankly from his leaning position on the kitchen isle. "You need a chair?" 

"What? Oh - no, my neck's stiff."

Aziraphale hums in understanding, but he doesn't move away.

Crowley doesn't move away either.

"Well turn around then" Aziraphale finally snaps, almost shoving the rolled-out bandages on the hunter's nose by means of explanation. 

Crowley is about to protest - Aziraphale's fierce eyes and his own lack of energy for bantering prevent him from doing so. 

He turns around, having the wolf behind him again, except - well. Closer. 

"You need to sleep that concussion off" Aziraphale says, all anger seemingly gone, both hands working their way around Crowley's chest and waist and armpits, placing the bandages so that no open cut is left uncovered. 

Close. Too close. Too hot. Fever?

"How did you get it?" His hot breath collides against Crowley's neck, making each and every hair to stand on end. The hunter braces himself on the edge of the counter.

"Punched - punched me, he did" he blurts out, words stumbling over each other, for his mind is somewhere else entirely: on Aziraphale's hands where they brush against his skin, on Aziraphale's breath where it comes out against his neck, Aziraphale's smell and Aziraphale's voice way too close to his ears and just - Aziraphale.

"Gabriel?"

"Hmm." 

"On the head?" 

"Think so - no bruises on my face, are there?"

He feels a knot finally being tied over his waist and slowly lets out the air he'd been holding in.

"No" the wolf's voice has gone down almost an octave - angered again. "Although you do have a bit of it on your left shoulder."

Crowley turns around, expecting to find Aziraphale out of his personal space already - not quite _wanting_ him out of his personal space.

And he isn't.

"Of bruising, that is"

Crowley can't help but break into a pant again, prompted not by the pain but by Aziraphale's closeness and his hand coming to brush over said shoulder - not a pain-induced daydream, this one.

"Did he do that too?" The wolf all but whispers, eyes staring right into the hunter's.

Animal-hearing senses come quite helpful right now, because Crowley's voice barely comes out, cracked and airless. 

"I don't think he did" Crowley finds himself realising he doesn't actually remember which one of the newly-turned was to blame for that, though he is sure he could earlier.

He sees Aziraphale's eyes dart over to his forehead, his neck, lips, back to his eyes.

"You have a temperature" he informs him, matter-of-factly.

And as if on cue, a cold shiver takes over and his whole body jerks involuntarily once more - his low defenses not the cause of it, certainly.

A pitiful whine escapes Crowley's mouth and before he knows it he's closing the distance between their lips - his body almost acting of its own accord. His hands wrap tightly on Aziraphale's shirt and bring him closer. The wolf, in turn, walks backwards until colliding with the wall - preventing Crowley from walking back against the counter himself and causing any further pain. Not that the hunter realises that's what's happening, of course. His brain is solely focused one one thing at the moment - or rather, person.

Aziraphale's lips feel like the sweetest and most tortuous thing. They feel like a never-ending sea of pleasure, and Crowley's thrown his anchor and it still hasn't hit the bottom.

He can't help the moans, and neither can Aziraphale, after a while. Except - his don't sound that much human.

Crowley pulls away when the thought flashes in his mind, and as he takes a moment to catch his breath to no avail he tries to remember what day it is - what stage of the moon they're in.

But his brain abandons the task the very moment Aziraphale's lips are placed on his neck, sucking at his skin, sending a bolt of electricity right to his groin. His hands have become fists on the wolf's chest, and the burning on his back has been almost completely replaced by a much more painful burn on his lower stomach.

"You, with your - ridiculously tight jeans" Aziraphale speaks in between wet kisses, Crowley tries to keep himself upright, eyes shut closed and drowning in want. "Strotting about - always strotting"

"I don't _strut_ " he breathes out a weak protest.

"Yes you bloody do" Aziraphale groans, and he brings his lips back to Crowley's, who welcome them eagerly.

They soon run out of breath again, and Crowley has to place a hand against the wall to Aziraphale's side in order to ground himself - the floor is moving.

"We can't do this tonight" the wolf shakes his head decidedly.

"No - I'm all right I'm..." 

One of Aziraphale's hands comes to his forehead and wipes the sweat off.

"You're not" he says, still panting, straightening up and bringing one of Crowley's arms over his neck to support his weight. "You'll pass out on me"

Crowley finds himself laughing, out of breath long after Aziraphale has walked him to the bedroom and all right - perhaps he isn't totably suited for it right now. Shapes are shifting and merging, he's broken into a cold sweat and his eyes can't seem to focus.

"What's one more day of waiting, after all?" 

He lets out a miserable groan in response as Aziraphale helps him face down on the matress. He manages to stay awake only until the wolf has taken his boots off. Then, he's out cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all, don't plot my murder but I've decided to make this the final chapter. I haven't had much time to write, what with having to study for my midterms and all and not finding the proper inspiration for this particular work. So I'll put the rating back to M and I'll upload a third part rated E to the series in the future, when I write it!  
> Thank you all for your support though! I'll see you round.


	3. Chapter 3

> Guys, I've just written another part of this series, figured I'd let you all know through here since this has got some subscribers. You should subscribe to the _series_ to get notifications for any more works on this AU! This is only a finished part of it, I won't be adding any more stuff to Witchy Tendencies but I _will_ be adding new parts to Furry Chronicles of Two Hereditary Enemies. **[Here's](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24619909/chapters/59478295) the new work and [here](https://smuggsy.tumblr.com/post/620872654137753600/young-amateur-hunter-crowley-werewolf) are its posters.**


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